


Of Rum, Mistletoe, and Christmas Parties

by Archer973



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Christmas Fluff, Christmas Party, F/M, For Pydia Pack Mom, Mistletoe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-08
Updated: 2014-12-08
Packaged: 2018-02-28 17:21:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2740706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Archer973/pseuds/Archer973
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lydia's all alone at the McCall Pack Christmas Party. Or is she?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Rum, Mistletoe, and Christmas Parties

**Author's Note:**

> So I kind of vaguely waved my hand at the timeline and... *wibbly wobbly motion*. Pack Mom requested Christmas fic and Christmas fic she shall have! Welcome back Pack Mom! Author now needs to go take a cold shower.

As Beacon Hill get-togethers went, the McCall-Hale Pack Christmas Party was a mellow affair. No demonic ninjas, no blood-thirsty assassins, not even an evil fox spirit or murderous kanima. Honestly, Lydia wouldn’t have minded a little bit of chaos, if only to give her _something_ to _do._

 _Or someone_ , she thought wryly to herself, taking another sip of the eggnog that Sheriff Stilinski had pointed not noticed and savoring the burn of rum on her tongue. The others had restrained themselves to one or two glasses, but Lydia was steadily nursing her fourth. And honestly who could blame her. What had started out as a Christmas party had quickly devolved into a five-way date. Scott and Kira, Stiles and Malia, Derek and Braeden, Allison and Isaac, Melissa and Sherriff… All happy and smiling and sickeningly in love.

“It’s disgusting, isn’t it?” Lydia jumped at the sudden interruption of her thoughts, nearly spilling the eggnog all over her sweater.

“What the hell are you doing here?” the irate young woman demanded, turning and fixing Peter Hale with a glare.

“What, can’t I come and socialize with my pack?” Peter protested, his best I’m-completely-innocent expression fixed firmly in place, though Lydia didn’t have to look to know that his blue eyes were dancing with laughter.

“I’m pretty sure you’ve tried to either maim or kill at least every person here at least once,” Lydia retorted, rolling her eyes at him as he settled onto the loveseat next to her. “Not exactly the basis for a solid pack relationship, don’t you think?”

“Ahh, but the past is the past,” Peter replied easily, waving his hand is easily dismissal of so many nightmares. “Besides, who could blame me? This lot is obviously evil, leaving the most beautiful woman in Beacon Hills sitting alone on a night like this, drinking herself into an early grave.”

“I think you’re overestimating the potency of this eggnog,” Lydia said dryly, rolling her eyes at his flattery. Peter grinned and, before Lydia could even think to stop him, reached over and plucked the glass out of her hand.

“Hey!” she protested, turning and glaring at him. Peter merely smirked, bringing the glass to his lips and taking a long sip. His eyebrows raised as he tasted the drink and he nearly coughed, much to Lydia’s satisfaction.

“I think this stopped being eggnog a while ago,” Peter remarked, regarding the glass a little warily. “How many of these have you had?”

“That,” Lydia snapped, grabbing her drink back out of his hand angrily, “is none of your business.” Peter smiled, raising his hands in surrender. Lydia went back to nursing her drink, determinedly ignoring the warm press of his thigh against hers, the cinnamon and sugar smell that seemed to be radiating off of him. She might have had a decent amount of rum, but not _that_ much, not enough to climb into Peter’s lap like that desperate, spinster aunt that always came to family reunions and drank all the wine before trying to pounce on the nearest piece of tasty manflesh.

“Lydia.” Once again Peter’s voice pulled her out of her contemplations. Lydia sighed, turning and looking at the werewolf with the expression of the long-suffering.

“What, Peter?” she asked impatiently. The older Hale was smirking at her, his blue eyes dancing with that infuriating amusement that Lydia hated so much.

“Look up.” Lydia held his gaze, refusing to fall for some kind of trick, but curiosity finally won out and she finally glanced upwards. Her eyes immediately zeroed in on the small, green plant taped haphazardly to the ceiling.

“Is that -?” But her question was cut off by a pair of warm lips pressing against hers. Lydia gasped, caught off guard by the sudden sensation, which Peter used to his full advantage, pressing forward. One hand snaked up to bury itself in her hair and cradle her head as he proceeded to kiss the everliving hell out of her, tongue tracing her lips.

Lydia should really pull away. She should pull away and slap him so hard the mark stays for days, werewolf healing be damned. She should not kiss him back, should not push back against him, one hand grabbing onto his hair and viciously maneuvering him into a position that suited her better. She should not eat the moans out of his mouth, should not lick the taste of rum from his lips, should not whimper as heat bloomed between her legs, a hunger she longed to sate.

Jerking back, Lydia tried to catch her breath, chest heaving. Peter’s hand was still buried in her hair, his pupils blown so wide there was only the barest hint of blue left. Lydia licked her lips, tasting him again, enjoying the way his eyes followed the movement, then pulled away, smoothing her skirt as she regarded the wrecked looking werewolf in front of her.

“Merry Christmas, Peter,” she said, trying to keep her voice steady, before turning away, heading for the door, and the blessedly cool winter air, her heart pounding.


End file.
